


A Little Touch of Aragorn in the Night

by SylvanWitch



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 22:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16795978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: Five companions.  Five kinds of comfort.  One man to offer and to accept it.





	A Little Touch of Aragorn in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> After my annual Black Friday re-watch of the extended versions of all three films, I finally decided to write the stories I inevitably go searching for but have not yet found. I'm not sure these are actually quite the same tales, but I hope they hit the spot for you.

**Lothlorien: Peace**

Aragorn is not awoken by Boromir’s slipping from their platform. His steps are almost silent; for such a large man, he moves with exceptional grace. It’s one of the many things Aragorn has noticed about Boromir.

No, Boromir doesn’t wake him up because Aragorn has not slept. The elves’ lament echoes in his head long after the last sad words die away.

He welcomes the excuse to climb out of his bed and down the winding stairs to the grotto where he finds Boromir brooding.

Aragorn doesn’t need to ask him why he’s alone, doesn’t need to ask why he doesn’t sleep. He’s seen in Boromir’s eyes the fear and uncertainty there; he knows the look of man doubting his destiny, wishing he could shrug out from beneath the burden for even a single night of peace.

Boromir’s hand is cold beneath his when he takes it. That the other does not jerk away, curse, impugn Aragorn’s manhood and/or parentage says as much about his need as it does his inclinations.

He takes no convincing to rise and follow Aragorn to a more private bower, where they will not be seen by even the elves’ keen eyes.

Boromir is passive in seeking his own pleasure. He grunts once, when Aragorn loosens the ties at his waist, and he sways when Aragorn wraps his hand around him.

Otherwise, he has his eyes closed against the sensation, and only the quickness of his breath and a single, bitten-off curse when he spends, searing hot, over Aragorn’s hand indicates that he is there with Aragorn at all.

There is a momentary stillness between them, Boromir’s seed dripping down Aragorn’s wrist, making him shiver a little with the sensation.

Then Boromir is kneeling, breathing, “My captain,” under his breath, so quietly that he might disavow it later, and he is working Aragorn free so that he can wrap his mouth around Aragorn’s manhood. 

Aragorn groans, the heat and suction, the power of Boromir’s tongue, the focus of all that strength brought to bear on his most delicate part—it makes him have to clench his hands into fists to keep from gripping the back of Boromir’s head, a touch that he does not know if the other man would welcome.

When Boromir, then, moves to take Aragorn’s hand and place it there, at the nape of Boromir’s neck, at that delicate point where a man’s head may be cleaved from his body, Aragorn tightens his grip only enough to be felt, to encourage but not to urge.

At that touch, Boromir moans around Aragon’s flesh, and Aragorn feels it to his root, throwing his head back and clenching his teeth to keep from shouting his release, which is sudden and blinding and which leaves him weak-kneed, panting, wanting suddenly more than he had expected or could reasonably ask of this son of Gondor, who has not yet sworn allegiance but who has knelt before Aragorn as a man and a brother and who, in this moment, has shared with him a little peace in the night.

**Helm’s Deep: Reunion**

Aragorn has not been so long away from his adopted kin that he does not know better than to draw Haldir into an embrace in front of the assembled might of Rohan and its golden king.

He simply does not care. The ambush and the plunge, the wandering long through dreams, the painful slow ride, the king’s despair and Legolas’ sharp words—they have tired him. He is _tired_.

Haldir’s beauty has not been diminished by time, of course, but it is also not shadowed by the dark doom approaching from the east nor by the damp suffocation of sky that glowers over their heads.

More than the Elf archers he has brought with him, more than the winged glory of their armor and the luminous beauty of their faces—

More than all of it, Aragorn is grateful for a friend who expects nothing of him but to fight by his side.

They have little privacy in the stronghold. Nervous farmers, old men, and untried boys mill in anxious droves, fingering their unfamiliar weapons and darting fearful glances at him, expecting that Aragorn will save them from their certain doom.

And he would.

“You cannot save them,” Haldir says quietly in their shared tongue, reading Aragorn’s thoughts as easily as of old, in those earlier days when his doom was not yet upon him as a shadow and a promise.

“I would,” he answers softly, his words barely above a whisper.  
  


  
“I know,” Haldir says, stepping close, guiding Aragorn into a dark alcove half-hidden from the stone corridor by a haphazard stack of worm-eaten planks. “But you cannot save these men and _all_ men at once. And right now, you do not seem even to have the strength to save yourself.”

Haldir’s smile is chiding but gentle, and Aragorn allows himself to be propped against the wall like so much wood, unbends enough to drop his head and rest it against Haldir’s shoulder.

This private embrace has no hesitation in it; it has been a long time since they were together, but nothing has been forgotten.

Every touch has the heat of a hearthfire, every kiss the warm light of home. Haldir whispers words of beauty and strength against Aragorn’s skin, breathes a promise of life and hope into him, tracing the fragile stream of his beating life down the long line of his throat.

Only Haldir’s quick, clever fingers on his lacings bring Aragorn back to himself, reminding him that this is a mutual reunion. It is a work of moments to free them both, to bring them together in his rough, sword-callused hand, to trace a smile across Haldir’s parted lips and offer him words of brotherhood and love.

Haldir grips him at the shoulders, stares straight into Aragorn’s eyes, lets him see the consuming fire, the mutual pleasure they build together, the bursting rapture spilling from them both in a searing release, even the languid, half-lidded afterglow, a sly smile on Haldir’s lips, a familiar kiss, warm and messy and true.

“I missed you, brother,” Aragorn says.

“And I you, brother,” Haldir answers, hands working deftly, swiftly to right their clothes and make them once again presentable for the world of men that awaits just beyond the shadows of this stolen moment.

As Haldir turns to leave, some impulse drives Aragorn to grip him at the elbow, turn him back for a final, long kiss, his hand cupping the back of Haldir’s head, all that glorious spill of golden hair like silken fire against his palm. The kiss lingers, and then they part with a sigh that lingers, too, on Aragorn’s lips and makes him shiver.

**Edoras: Solace**

There is no privacy in Edoras, no quiet, no peace.

Aragorn drinks to the victorious dead, but the cup pours only bitterness into his mouth. The smiles of his companions are like a dim signal at some great distance; he knows he should be able to understand them and respond, but he cannot.

He has washed his hands, his body, his hair, and clothed himself in clean raiment, but the blood of Haldir, burnished by the ruddy light of the great hall’s fires, still stains his hands.

It is foolish, these imaginings. He is a ranger and a veteran of many battles, and he should be done with this, enough to raise his cup again, to talk horses with Eomer, to swap tall tales with Gimli.

To return the light of hope kindled in Eowyn’s eyes when she hands him the victory cup and he drinks. He can tell by the way her eyes linger that this means more to her than it should. He wishes he had the words to put her away from him, but he knows better than to try to speak at all. Nothing but bitterness can come from his mouth this night.

He moves on, out a side door that leads to a narrow path around the great hall’s mount and to the back, where the midden reeks and something over-large scurries away from it in the dark.

“Hardly a place for the hero of the feast.” Legolas materializes out of stars and darkness, and it is pride alone that prevents Aragorn from startling.

“I’m no hero,” he avers. He does not bother to hide his state of mind from Legolas. There would be no point, and anyway, they’re friends.

Legolas comes closer, his voice low, meant only for Aragorn. He speaks the tongue they share, weaving the illusion of privacy more tightly around them.

“Haldir came because it was the right thing to do.”

“Haldir came because he was sent.” Aragorn tries to keep it from becoming a cry, but the pain is too raw. He finds himself short of breath and clamps his teeth around what he might say next.

“Because the Lady believes in you, Aragorn, and in the cause of man. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. His death is not your fault and to say otherwise is to dishonor the choices he made that brought him to the battle.”

Aragorn shakes his head, suddenly wearier than he has ever been, all the wounds and the little indignities of age catching up with him.

Legolas’ hand is warm on his shoulder, and it takes very little pressure to move Aragorn back into the shadow of the building, until he’s leaning against the wall. There, in the obscuring dark, Legolas wraps his arms around him and holds him close.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he whispers, his breath warm on the shell of Aragorn’s ear, wracking shivers out of him.

Aragorn holds on, something immense clawing its way up from his belly, and though he swallows hard and closes his eyes, it seeps out around his clenched teeth, a breathless, awful sound of sorrow.

Legolas hushes him, holds his face against his shoulder, strokes his hair. Soon, he begins to sing, just a simple elvish tune about life beneath the golden leaves, beside a silver stream. It breaks the last of Aragorn’s resolve, and he lets the tears fall, swift but silent, until he is utterly spent.

When at last he can cry no more, hollow-eyed and swaying, he brings a hand up to push Legolas away. Legolas yields only a few inches, far enough to look into Aragorn’s eyes. In the weak light that reaches them, Aragorn can see the bright glint of Legolas’ eyes, the steady expression on his face, the biding patience.

He cannot help but lean in to lay a chaste kiss against the perfection of his mouth. Save for a startled murmur, Legolas does not seem averse to this new expression of their friendship.

Indeed, he returns the kiss, pressing back into Aragorn’s space again, deepening the kiss and stretching out against him.

Aragorn takes his weight gladly, feeling his lean strength shielding him from the world. 

An affectionate word recalls to him the last fair one of Elf-kind he’d kissed, and Aragorn stills until Legolas pulls back.

“I am…sorry,” Aragorn manages at last, short of breath for the heat of Legolas’ mouth and for the ghost crowding into the space between them.

Legolas takes his hands from Aragorn’s hips, where they had wandered, and instead cups his face to lean in and lay one last kiss on his parted lips.

“For my part, there is no cause to apologize.” He leaves the thought unfinished, asking without asking, and Aragorn would have to be a stronger man than he is not to reach up and take Legolas’ hands, saying, “I would we might revisit this on a happier occasion.”

Legolas’ smile is like the sun breaking through lowering clouds.

“I will hold you to that,” Legolas promises, stepping back.

Aragorn only reluctantly releases his hands, half-afraid the stains on his own will have leached into the Elf’s fair skin, but even in the uncertain light of the stars, he can see only the unmarred beauty of them. He has left no mark of his sorrow for others to see.

The noise greets them like a slap as they return to the hall. At once, someone calls for Aragorn to join them at a table, and Legolas is likewise summoned for another drinking game. But now and again, when he looks up from the talk of battle plans or the boasting of others, Aragorn finds Legolas’ eyes on him, a steady light to guide him home.

**Minas Tirith: Comfort**

It is only when Eowyn’s breathing is even and her sleep natural that Eomer finally acknowledges Aragorn’s suggestion that he get some rest, and luckily Aragorn had accompanied his words with actions to suit, because when Eomer tries to rise, his knees, stiffened from so long sitting, refuse to hold him.

Aragorn takes his weight gladly, murmuring polite nonsense when the proud Rohirrim would resist.

Aragorn is embarrassed to lead Eomer to his quiet, clean, silent rooms. He had tried to insist that they be given over for the care of the wounded and the dying, but exhausted and overtaxed as the servants of the palace might be, none would yield to even his most stubborn insistence.

Gandalf’s wry wink had sealed his fate, so he was in possession of perhaps the only space in the citadel that didn’t smell of poultices and open wounds.

He could have spared his worry on Eomer’s account. The man is too far gone in battle-weariness, worry, and grief to even notice where he is, a point borne home when Aragorn leaves him at the edge of the bath and comes back with towels several moments later to find the man still standing where he’d stopped.

Gently, he leads Eomer to a bench built in to the wall of the bathing room. Quietly, he summons servants to fill the bath, hoping that they can spare the time and effort just now. Eomer may be walking, but he is still wounded, body and soul.

Carefully, he approaches the man, crouching to try to catch his eye. 

“Let me help you,” he offers, gesturing to the leathers, besmirched with gore and coated in a pasty layer of filth. Eomer doesn’t seem to understand quite what he’s hearing; already he seems to have wandered off into the haze of half-sleep.

Aragorn makes quick work of his cuirass, vambraces, greaves, and pauldrons, but he has to help Eomer rise to remove the skirt and mail. The bath is full by the time they are down to his shirt and smalls.

“Would you like me to leave? I can send a servant—,” he offers, uncertain of the young man’s state of mind.

But Eomer merely shakes his head, and Aragorn begins to help him remove his shirt, only to discover that it has stuck to him where he has bled beneath it.

“Into the tub,” he suggests, guiding Eomer to the edge and steadying him while he climbs over the side of the tub and sinks down into the water.

It is a tub of generous size, made for men of Gondor like Boromir, whom Aragorn has been trying not to think of, but he’s glad of the reminder now if it means that Eomer can stretch out his weary length and let Aragorn ease the filthy shirt from him.

It sets some wounds to bleeding, but as a healer he can only approve. 

Aragorn orders more water, to be left at the door, and returns with soap and a soft cloth. Eomer’s chin is inches above the water, his long hair fanned out around him, dirt and worse leeching from it in a brownish cloud.

Aragorn wets the cloth and lathers it and begins the long, slow process of getting Eomer clean.

He deliberately avoids his face, which is wet with tears Eomer does not acknowledge, and Aragorn gives him what privacy he can by focusing on his task.

Eomer’s torso is mottled with bruises in every shade, from the sickly yellow of old contusions to the vivid puce of fresh blows. With gentle, ginger touches, he feels for broken bones, and though Eomer shifts and murmurs a protest, Aragorn is relentless until he is sure there is no mortal hurt lurking beneath the awful palette of his skin.

At last, he has nothing left to clean above the waist except for Eomer’s face hair.

When he turns to that task, he is startled to find Eomer’s clear, sharp eyes fixed on him.

Wordlessly, he offers soap and cloth, and wordlessly, Eomer refuses, shaking his head to indicate his pleasure.

It is Aragorn’s pleasure also to relieve that fair young face of the mementoes of death that mar it.

The water is an opaque grey when Aragorn says, “Come out of there so that I can change the water.”

Eomer complies with a curt nod and still no word, rising on unsteady legs to be helped out of the tub and over to the bench once more. His continued silence, his refusal to eat the simple meal the servants have left and that Aragorn offers him, his distant stare that does not seem to see anything in that room, in the citadel or the city—it begins to worry Aragorn.

  
He makes short work of draining the great tub and refilling it with the clean, hot water the servants have left as instructed.

When Aragorn comes to him, Eomer rises unaided, steps stiffly out of his dripping smalls, and shuffles over to the tub, where his energy appears to fail him. He lets Aragorn steady him as he climbs in again.

“Lie back,” Aragorn suggests, working soap through the greasy tangles of Eomer’s long hair. It takes time, slow effort, and patience to free his hair of snarls and of clotted earth and matted blood and other things Aragorn does not want to name. Eomer’s eyes are closed, his breathing gone deep and slow, and his fragile skull is cradled there in Aragorn’s rough hands.

The trust steals his breath and makes his belly cold with fear. Soon, he will hold a whole kingdom of such young men in his hands, to support or to crush, to command to their deaths. To like and admire.

Aragorn does not let himself think of _want_.

Instead, he rinses the last of the soap from Eomer’s hair and retrieves a fresh cloth to bathe his feet and legs. He tries not to think about how powerful Eomer’s thighs are, how they would feel clenched around him, guiding him as he guides his horse, to speed up or slow down, to shift to left or right.

Aragorn breathes out through his nose, trying to banish his growing awareness of Eomer’s strength and beauty and his manhood, nestled in a thick thatch of hair, vulnerable and wanting only his touch to wake it.

He looks up to see Eomer’s eyes bright and clear on him, and Aragorn’s hands move to the work unbidden, trailing the cloth between his legs and back further while he uses his soap-slick hand to wash Eomer’s hardening cock.

Eomer’s breath catches, the first sign that he is truly there with Aragorn, and then the water sloshes as he shifts to spread his legs and make more room for Aragorn’s hand with the cloth, making it clear what he wants, not saying a word.

But Aragorn will have his word on this, at least; he will not press on if there is no understanding.

“Is this something you want?” he asks, taking his hands away for fear of influencing the other man’s answer. His own cock may be aching with desire, but he will not take advantage of a heartsick and wounded man.

“It is what I have long dreamt of in the privacy of my own tent,” Eomer assures him, but his eyes are feral, and Aragorn fears he has been overtaken by some madness. He has seen such things before.

“I do not think—.”

“Please,” Eomer says, and the expression in his eyes now is wild with many things—fear and anguish and desire, too—but it is wholly the man Aragorn knows looking back at him now. “I would forget for a little while.”

This, Aragorn understands intimately.

He returns to his ministrations, taking time, working slowly over the hardening flesh, carefully with his other hand beneath the water, teasing that most intimate opening, hearing with pleasure the little hitches of Eomer’s breath that betray his own pleasure.

He lets only the very tip of one soapy finger breach the tightness of Eomer’s body and at the same time tightens his grip on him. Eomer’s voice breaks on a wordless cry, and suddenly Aragorn’s stroking hand is stilled by the bruising grip of both of Eomer’s hands on his forearm.

He looks up, but Eomer’s eyes are closed as if in pain, his teeth gritted to hold back any noise. The muscles of his neck are corded, and he’s shaking his head from side to side in denial.

“I’m sorry,” he says, deeply ashamed that he has apparently misread Eomer so completely, and tries to open his hand, at the same time pulling his finger gently from the young man’s body.

Eomer makes another sound, wounded and deep, and says, “No,” through clenched teeth. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Eomer’s body has not flagged in its interest, so though his words belie his expression, Aragorn once more takes him in hand, once more slips the first joint of his finger into Eomer’s body.

“Please,” Eomer whispers again, as though begging for some terrible pain to stop, but Aragorn goes on, moving his hand more confidently, thrusting a little with his finger, and Eomer responds, hips making shallow thrusts, circling. Water begins to slosh rhythmically against the sides of the tub, wetting Aragorn to his armpits, but he doesn’t care.

He’s focused on Eomer’s face, on the man coming slowly undone in his hands. Eomer is crying now, sucking in great, choking gusts and trying to hold back the sounds that he would make.

Taking a chance, Aragorn says, “It’s alright, Eomer. We’re alone. You can trust me. Let it out.”

He tightens his hand again, roughening his touch and speeding up, and Eomer makes an awful noise in the back of his throat, thrusts up hard into Aragorn’s grip, and comes, tears breaking across his face, teeth biting off sounds of terrible anguish.

When he has finished, he slumps back against the edge of the tub. His cheeks are a hectic red, his lips red from biting, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe around the sobs that are wracking him.

Aragorn leaves off one touch for another, pulling Eomer into his arms, cupping the back of his head in his hand and laying kisses against his temple. Eventually, Eomer’s shaking eases and the tension in his body surrenders to inevitable exhaustion.

When Aragorn at last pulls away, Eomer’s eyes are red and heavy-lidded, his lips still trembling with suppressed sorrow, and bone-deep weariness is written in every line of his body. But he is aware enough to allow Aragorn to help him from the tub.

He stands, swaying, while Aragorn rubs him gently dry and more briskly dries his hair. He allows Aragorn to help him into the soft clothes left for him by the thoughtful servants.

He lets Aragorn guide him to his bedchamber, watches passively as Aragorn pulls back the covers, climbs in wordlessly and settles against the pillow, his hair spilling around his pale face like dark honey.

As Aragorn turns to go, Eomer’s soft, “Wait,” stops him.

He turns back to the bed to see only the palest gleam where Eomer struggles to keep his eyes open.

“Stay with me?” He sounds so much like an orphaned little boy that Aragorn would have to be a much stronger and far more callous man to deny him.

As it is, he can think of few things he’d like more just then than to strip off his wet clothes and climb into the bed to lie down beside Eomer and take one of his strong, shaking hands into his own, resting it against his heart so that the young man can feel its steady beating.

Eomer is asleep in moments, his breathing deep and slow, a seductive rhythm that Aragorn matches, content to share this night with a man who has proven that his great strength is outmatched only by an even greater heart. 

If in the darkest hours they roll together, tangled at ankle and knee, held and holding, well, there are none who will speak of it on the morrow.

**Minas Tirith: Benediction**

“I cannot do this,” Aragorn says, ashamed of his weakness but stubborn in his certainty.

“You can, and you must,” Gandalf answers solemnly, no twinkling in his eye, no droll curving of the lips. 

They are in an antechamber bathed in a hazy glow, the high, arched window inviting sunlight that paints the white stone walls in glittering splendor.

Aragorn is sick of splendor. He is tired of white stone and broad halls and windows that taunt him with forested vistas far beyond his reach or his reason.

The muted roar of the crowd gathered outside reaches them, breaks over him like a wave, inevitable and deadly. He will be overtaken by his duties soon, and then there will be no time in the wild, alone with the wind and his thoughts. 

“It is not like you to be so…” Gandalf struggles for words, but Aragorn knows it for the ruse it is.

“Selfish,” Aragorn supplies, trying to keep from sounding as bitter as he feels.

“I was going to say ‘uncertain.’” Now the twinkle puts in an appearance, a brief gleam of mischief in the corner of one blue eye.

“I have never wanted this for myself,” Aragorn reminds him. They are words from his heart that he has shared with very few, but the wizard standing a few feet away has heard them once before.

As if summoned from a distant green wood, the young Aragorn appears in his mind’s eye, fleet of foot, steady of hand, and altogether too cocksure. Mithrandir had come to seek Elrond’s counsel and a measure of the peace, and when Aragorn had encountered him in the woods one morning, the wizard had challenged him to recite the line of kings of old.

Aragorn had named them all, beginning with the Dunedain and faltering only when he arrived at the last kings of Gondor before the line of kings had failed.

Mithrandir had chided him. “You must know that line as you know your own, young Elessar, for you are to rule all men when the new age unfolds.”

“I do not want that,” Aragorn had said, a challenge as clear in his voice as in his stance, which was aggressive.

He hadn’t even seen the wizard move before he found himself on his back, the wind knocked from him and the knotted end of Mithrandir’s staff held at his throat, a sign and a threat.

“Your choices are few,” the wizard said, sternness in his voice and in his face. And then something warm had come into his eyes, and he had pulled back his staff and offered Aragorn a hand, which Aragorn had used, naturally, to bring the wizard down.

He had not expected him to be so heavy. Nor had he expected the warm tingle of arousal to spread through him at the other man’s weight pinning him to the ground.

What had transpired then had been hazed in dream-light ever since, a summer storm, quick and hot as lightning and as swift to pass. Neither had spoken of it again, though now and then he thought he caught a hint of heat in Gandalf’s eyes.

It was there now, as Aragorn was about to step off the edge of the world he loved and plunge into a new life all out of keeping with the one he had once dreamt of for himself.

Gandalf closed the space between them and touched Aragorn’s cheek gently before taking his face in both hands and holding him there, looking deep into his eyes. Aragorn saw stars in Gandalf’s gaze, the vast distances of space bridged by arcs of light. He swayed, suddenly dizzy, until Gandalf grounded him with a firm, close-mouthed kiss, one on his lips, a reminder; one on each closed eye, a promise; one on his forehead, a benediction.

“Nothing is lost here for you today,” Gandalf promised, his low, clear voice striking a chord inside Aragorn that set his limbs to trembling but steeled his will to the task ahead.

For the first time, Aragorn thought he could see a path opening for him, a dim and winding road leading out once more into the wide world, a road he would travel alone sometimes but never lonely, so long as there were friends like Gandalf at his back and by his side.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said, pressing Gandalf’s hand to his heart.

“King Aragorn,” Gandalf answered, “Your future awaits.”

And that is how Aragorn found himself standing before the roaring throng, all those hopeful faces fixed on his, all the promise of those people waiting on his pleasure to begin. And so he did.

_“This day does not belong to one Man,_

_But to All._

_Let us together rebuild this World,_

_That we may share in the_

_Days of Peace.”_

**Author's Note:**

> The title was inspired by two things: The line from _Henry V_ describing King Hal visiting the troops in disguise on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt, and a Harry Potter fanfiction I read many years ago that I have always remembered, in which Harry travels from tent to tent on the eve of the final battle with Voldemort and offers a special kind of comfort to a variety of his compatriots. That story, "A Little Touch of Harry in the Night," has the same title as another well-known HP tale by the fabulous Amanuensis, but my Google fu did not find the one that inspired this one, or I'd link it here for you.


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